


the last eclipse of little star

by radishface



Category: X1 (Korea Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:15:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22056877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radishface/pseuds/radishface
Summary: “They’re the lucky ones, Little Star. They can seize us at whimsy, manipulate us at will, abandon us, nurture us, realize us. They might be mortal—but they’re much, much better off.”Every Idea wants to become influential and unforgettable; practiced, manifested, and realized by humans. With his cherubic face and charisma, the 200-year-old Little Star is a rising talent within the Innocents Sect and a favorite to become the Chief Steward of Song and Rhyme.But when Little Star meets a 2,000-year old spectre who has decided to abdicate the realm of Ideas entirely, he begins to question what Ideas are really made of.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iriascent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iriascent/gifts).



> For my good friend who offers reassuring counsel, delights with her imagination, possesses wisdom beyond her years, whose barbs make me “LOL!”, and whose insight keeps me on my toes.

He felt the pull at the back of his head, but ignored it. 

Before him, the child known as Han Seungwoo had been sitting on the top of the jungle gym for the last fifteen minutes in human time, unmoving, face turned up to the sky, eyes closed. His pale, chubby fingers gripped the red and blue bars tightly as he rocked himself back and forth. 

_Twinkle, twinkle, little star_ Han Seungwoo sang quietly, opening his eyes to look at the sky, the moon’s crescent a sharp cut in the sky as the sky bled ultraviolet, the first few crystalline punctures appearing in the vast bleed of ultraviolet as the sky dimmed in its final dusk before nightfall.

 _If you caught a cold now, you could die, and then where would I be? I’d have to find you all over again._ Little Star was worried and a little annoyed, but Han Seungwoo couldn’t hear him. The wind blew cold, maybe Little Star’s idea, maybe not, and Han Seungwoo shivered. 

_How I wonder what you are,_ Han Seungwoo sang. _Up above the world so high._

 _Not for long,_ Little Star sang back, even though Han Seungwoo couldn’t hear him. But from the smile that spread across his face, he wondered if maybe, Han Seungwoo actually could. 

They sang like that for a while, Han Seungwoo quietly into the night sky in a child’s whisper and Little Star back in a Morse code of twinkling light from light years upon light years away and also right next to Han Seungwoo. Before, he might have been desperate to catch Han Seungwoo’s attention however he could, but tonight he was calm. 

He had made up his mind.

From far away, there was a cry. “Seungwoo-yah!” It was Eldest Sister. “Come back home! It’s time for dinner!” 

Seungwoo hopped off the jungle gym in one swoop. He was tall for his age, and confident and graceful in his movements. His dark eyes were sensitive, kind, and watchful. He was quiet and careful in his movements, as if afraid to disturb the atmosphere. Even now on the top of the jungle gym, his balance was careful, his legs did not swing carelessly. How different was Han Seungwoo’s life now compared to what it was before! And yet, a human child’s life was always charmed. The question was whether his old friend would be able to navigate the realm of human adulthood and emerge in one piece. 

His old friend had picked the right time and place to be reincarnated. The situation looked good. Maybe Little Star would be lucky, as well. Something in his chest twisted. It had followed him mercilessly year after year, this shame. Little Star had taken eight human years to decide on such a simple thing, and it might already be too late. But he couldn’t think this way now. 

Little Star watched him, as he always had. He had all of Han Seungwoo’s movements memorized, the way his face looked, how he laughed, how he cried, what made him happy, what made him sad, all these things. Not that any of it would matter after tonight. 

“ _Han Seungwoo!_ ” Eldest Sister called. 

Han Seungwoo didn’t move from the park, as if reluctant to leave. Little Star could tell he was cold from the way his goosebumps carved up his arms. The season was beginning to turn, the last vestige of summer leaving in bits and spurts. Tonight was the rare chilly night that portended the winter to come.

Little Star didn't want Seungwoo to go, not yet, he never had. So he sent a howling of wind to mask Eldest Sister’s voice, but Eldest Sister’s voice was still strong. “Seungwoo- _yah_ ,” Eldest Sister’s voice carried over the children’s park. “ _You’re going to catch a cold!_ ”

Han Seungwoo broke out into a run and ran all the way home. He caught up with his sister, whose arms were full of grocery bags, and helped her carry them back to the apartment. At that moment, Little Star felt the tugging at the back of his head grow stronger, and the small silver bell in his pocket began to ring. His time was up.

 _Han Seungwoo, I’ll see you soon,_ Little Star said, crisp in the night sky, before winking out. 


	2. The Symposium

It had been eight human years since the entity now known as Han Seungwoo had left the Realm—a world far away from the world of humans, and yet not far away at all. It was a world known by humans—whether they called it The Dreaming, The Mandate, Olympus, Valhalla, Heaven and Hell—this world that lived alongside the human world had many names that changed every day, and all of them were true. 

The world of Ideas was once one without order or structure, and the Ideas knew themselves not from one another. This was the period known as the Liquid Era, and the substance the Ether. It was only after humans came into existence that Ideas began to organize and differentiate themselves as well. Into clans, sects, and tribes they went, the more mature among them even evolving into more complex hierarchies, bureaucracies, and companies. Within these structures lived the ideals that humans had ever held dear, aloof, worshipped, put on pedestals, died for, murdered for, suffered for, been changed for, remade for. 

Like many other Ideas differentiated into prosperous sects, Little Star wanted to be worshipped. Little Star was fortunate in that the form and physique that had been differentiated for him were in accordance with his destiny as one of the Innocents—in human terms, he was _born with a face that matched his name_. With his talent, his discipline, and his integrity, he quickly ascended to become a prince of the realm, and was deemed by the Elders of the Innocents for a long and prosperous career.

Some Ideas, like his friend Dashing, were not so lucky. Dashing had been differentiated into the Warrior family, but with his limpid, round eyes and curly hair, and sweetly-upturned lips, he looked more like a puppy than a fighter. Even in his sect’s imposing uniform of black robes, reptilian chest armor, and leather boots, Dashing couldn’t cut a threatening figure if he tried. 

Little Star had hoped that time would round out Dashing’s edges— or rather, sharpen them—but this was one of the downsides of immortality. Ideas were what you were, and whatever form you were deemed to have, you were stuck with for the rest of your so-called life. 

Dashing could barely hold back his enthusiasm as he ran over to Little Star after the discussion round table adjourned. While the Elders mingled in the hall, Dashing and Little Star headed across the street to stroll the temple grounds. 

The Preamble to the Second Millennia Ideas Symposium was held in Liminal Seoul, in the CoEx Conference Center on Bongeunsa Road, across from the Bongeunsa Temple. This location was chosen because it had the facilities to host over ten thousand spirits and their attendants and because the neighboring energy of the Buddhist temple was strong and nourishing. It was four in the morning, human time, and the sun had not yet begun to rise. Idea Symposiums were often held late at night, human time, to minimize risks of contact. If a human with strong intuition were to walk down the block right now, they would feel the warm halo of lights and the buzz of energy. Someone with shamanic-level intuition might even be able to cross the liminal threshold and enter the space, and someone with enough cultivation might be able to cross back into the human world. 

As soon as Dashing and Little Star reached the temple grounds, they slowed their footsteps and quieted their speech. There were a number of other Ideas floating through the temple. At this hour, none of the monks had risen yet and it felt like they had the entire grounds to themselves. 

“By the way—congratulations, Little Star,” Dashing said. Little Star blinked. 

“For what?” 

Dashing pointed to the gold tassel and silver bell hanging from Little Star’s white robes. “You have recently been appointed a High Steward of Song and Rhyme, no?” 

Little Star shrugged, not sure how to respond. 

“It was the news among many of us. Were you really going to not tell me?” Dashing sounded hurt. 

It wasn’t that he wasn’t going to tell Dashing. It was a good development, of course it was—Little Star had been assigned to the Rites of Innocence, where he had worked for the last two hundred years. Within the last decade he had been promoted to steward one of humanity’s most famous folk songs. Whenever children sang _twinkle twinkle,_ that’s where Little Star would be. 

But not all of his friends had been so lucky in their careers. Dashing and Little Star had both differentiated around the same time, starting as lowly attendants, but in the last fifty years, Little Star had gone much further in his career. Dashing was still cultivating to be worthy of his Warrior bearing, but without the luck to be differentiated with the right face, it was hard for him to be taken seriously, and he was time and time again made to take the front lines. 

“This old thing?” Little Star made his voice careless, and poked at the bell on his belt. It emitted a charmingly warm chime with rounded edges, the feeling of nursery rhymes and sing-songs the world around. “It’s just a folk song.” 

“One of the most sung folk songs in the world!” 

“In today’s day and age, songs are a dime a dozen,” Little Star demurred, and twisted his hands in his sleeves. “I'm sure something will come to replace me in no time.” 

Dashing went quiet. There was truth to what Little Star said. “Humans are lucky that way, aren’t they?” 

They were. Without humans, Ideas could not work. Fragile and clumsy as they might be, with lifespans that ended after less than one hundred years, everyone knew that humans were the ones who could nurture ideas, change them, and evolve them. Little Star shivered at the idea of being confined to the Recesses and cultivating without a purpose: to be useful to humans. 

And how he had worked to be useful! Since Little Star differentiated from the Ether almost two centuries ago, he had been cultivating and studying to be worthy of his birthright. The Elders had finally deemed him worthy of the High Steward title shortly before the Symposium, which was to be his debut. At his Coronation, Brother Jacques of _Frere Jacques_ had finally conceded him his birthright, the walnut-sized silver bell that stood for his song—yes, finally _his_ song—knotting it around his waist sash. 

Brother Jacques’ voice was resounding and forthright. “As the faithful steward, I concede this duty of the Innocents to you, Brother Star.” 

Little Star’s hands trembled in his sleeves. How badly he wanted to touch the bell which now hung at his waist, but resisted the urge. Instead, he met Brother Jacques’ look straight in the eye. “And I, the faithful steward of the Innocents, accept this duty. From now until the end of days, I will watch over the ritual of this Song and Rhyme, never to relinquish my post, always upholding its sacredness, always upholding the gentleness and the purity by which the Innocents live.” 

And then, with a twinkling of his bell, Little Star appeared at his first solitary visitation.

A mother coddled her baby close to her chest, looking out the window at the last vestige of dusk. Her baby was whining softly, settling into sleep. From the look of it, the baby was a newborn girl. The mother bounced gently up and down, singing as she looked out the window. 

_Twinkle, twinkle, little star,_

_How I wonder what you are_

_Up above the world so high,_

_Like a diamond in the sky—_

As if on cue, the first star appeared in the sky. The mother’s eyes widened and her lips parted in a smile of quiet joy at the serendipitous timing. At her breast, the baby breathed, now fast asleep. Little Star lingered, watching as the mother set the baby down into the crib and gave the mobile a gentle clockwise turn. Stars and moons made of felt danced above the baby’s body. Little Star blew a gentle breeze over the mobile, and it danced further.

The mother leaned over the crib to tuck her baby in again. Little Star was so close that he could almost feel the touch of skin against himself. He reached out with his own hand to guide the mother’s to the baby’s cheek, pale and rosy, like featherlight snow. 

A chime of the bell at his waist tugged him back gently across the Liminal Divide, back into the coronation hall. 

“And how are your visitations?” Little Star asked, changing the subject. But from the look on Dashing’s face, this wasn’t a lighter or easier topic. They had known each other too long for cordialities to be mustered, so Dashing couldn't help but be honest.

“Visitations are fine, I suppose. I don’t know. I’ve been stationed on the Afghan border...” 

“Still?” Little Star raised an eyebrow. “Did you not petition the Elders to be transferred to a different department?” 

Dashing had seen the front lines of every war in the last two hundred years. His duty was to possess the men who charged into battle despite their fears—these men were Dashing’s specialty, cowardly men made momentarily brave. But none of the fighters he had possessed had ever made it out alive. It was no surprise that Dashing felt guilty for every human he had possessed on the battlefield. _I’m a bad idea,_ he’d cried to Little Star at the mid-century Symposium at Vienna, after the Second War had ended. And for the next thirty years he had petitioned his elders to move into the arts, but even then, his predecessors with square jaws, flinty eyes, and booming pectorals had him beat. 

“It's a crowded market for Warriors,” Little Star had said, trying to soothe him. “But surely there is an Arts department?” Since the Second War, humans had entered into an age of spectacular progress and peace, and deaths by killing were at an all-time low as a percentage. Peacetime brought with it arts. Warriors were always in demand, but perhaps this time it would be on screens and onstage. Back then, Dashing’s eyes lit up, and he had promised Little Star he would try. 

Dashing’s eyes were dimmed today. “Well, now that you mention it...” And he proceeded to tell Little Star about the Arts department. It was a contested place, almost just as ruthless as the battlefield of humans in Reality. “Today, there are many demigods and idols who look for personas to inhabit. These are not bad places for Warriors. But these human personas change with the seasons, and I don’t want to—I don’t want to be a one-shot wonder, Little Star...” his voice trailed off, and a fire suddenly entered his eyes. “Ah, it’s so unfair!”

“Your time will come,” Little Star reassured him. “There’s a time and place for every one of us.” 

“Maybe,” Dashing said. “But how long will I have to wait? And what if my destiny is actually just to be—“ he laughed, and didn’t finish his sentence.

None of them wanted to be one-shot wonders. It was hard enough to become differentiated in the first place, especially into sects like theirs—the Warriors and the Innocents were among the most prestigious, and long-lived. To be used and abused like lower-level ideas, used up and cast aside as passing fancies, then back into the Ether they’d go... Little Star shivered, overwhelmed suddenly by the thought of denaturing. Everything he'd work for, melted in an instant! He closed his eyes to settle his fears into disdain. Humans had no idea the power they wielded, and were still so careless. 

He felt a tug at the back of his skull, and the bell quivered in his lap. 

“I wish we could talk more, Dashing—but I have to prepare for the Symposium,” Little Star stood up. 

“I saw—the auditions are today.” Dashing said, a bittersweet smile on his face. Little Star nodded quickly and looked as if it were not important, so as not to dwell on the matter and embarrass his friend. But to be honest, he was a little nervous. This would be the first time he would be conducting an Exchange as the High Steward of Song and Rhyme. 

They paced quietly through the temple, winding their way down the mountain. To the left in the monk’s quarters, they heard the sound of washing up and gargling as the acolytes readied themselves for morning meditation. 

One monk was already outside, taking his laundry from off the rack when he saw Little Star and Dashing. His eyebrows raised but he quickly composed himself, and bowed deeply. “Good morning,” he said. He was young and lively, his wide black eyes as stunning as the most lively of Rascal Ideas—eyes that were looking straight at Little Star and Dashing! 

The two Ideas hid their open gapes behind their sleeves and bowed in return. A being of high cultivation who could _see them._ Suddenly, their dark moods from earlier vanished as surely shadows fled in the rising sun. “Good morning,” they chorused brightly. 

“Peace be with you,” the monk said. Little Star and Dashing giggled—how old school! But they echoed “peace be with you,” and the monk bowed even deeper. 

“Could I—“ the monk looked hesitant. “Would you like to come in for tea?” Little Star and Dashing shook their heads, and peeled off in a fit of giggles back to the CoEx conference center. A human! A human had seen them _as they were!_ And even _invited them for tea!_

“Magic!” Dashing breathed, as they ran through the doors. 

“Magic!” Little Star laughed. 

They parted ways at the entrance, and Little Star dashed into the conference hall just in time for the session he was to facilitate—the Exchange of Song and Rhyme. 

He thought he was prepared.


	3. An Exchange

Little Star squirmed in his seat, fidgeting with the long sleeves and his belt. Would these never end? It was hard to keep his seat still. Every ten years, the sects would come together and determine which Songs each sect would throw their weight behind. It was part of Little Star’s duties to listen patiently to them and select the best that would continue the tradition and the human ability to promote Innocence in the human world. 

They were called Exchanges, and yet for someone of his stature, they felt more like auditions. As a steward of Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star always had countless new renditions to entertain and sort through—some of them tasteful, some of them saccharine, some of them bawdy and vulgar. This year, he had prepared a pre-screening, which meant that lyrics were pre-submitted, and then the founding Ideas were invited to audition. Of the hundred thousand or so ideas, he had narrowed it down to five hundred auditions. This time, unlike previous times, he had help to sort through the auditions—temporary Lower Stewards. While they were only lent to him for this session, the fact that the Elders had allocated him extra helping hands made Little Star’s heart surge in delight and pride.

There were a few clear winners from this batch, including a jingle for a new cleaning product from the Madonna Sect and a complex choral arrangement specifically designed for an Italian boy’s choir. There were numerous sexual renditions ( _throw them out!_ ) and a few teasing playground renditions ( _runner-ups_ ), but otherwise the submissions this decade were, while voluminous, lacking in quality. That, and listening to the same C-C-G-G-A-A-G rendition five hundred times in a row made Little Star’s head throb. 

It was his first time stewarding the Exchange on his own, and he was determined to keep a good face for his sect and to show his capabilities. He tried not to let his headache and irritation show, and kept a bright smile on the whole time, thanking each Idea that had auditioned courteously and politely. The auditions couldn’t be over soon enough. When they were finished, he dismissed the Lower Stewards and set about cleaning the tables of sheet music and audition notes by himself, glad to be alone. When he was done ordering them, the pages of notes itself stacked about two feet high and the sheet music was four feet high. 

Little Star sighed, his headache growing worse. He had been overconfident, telling the Lower Stewards to be dismissed. 

There was a rustling sound behind him. “Good thing you’ve returned,” he told the Lower Steward, “could you gather these papers into a—oh.” 

It wasn’t one of the Lower Stewards, but someone he hadn’t seen before. The Idea was towering in height, dressed in all black robes with a red sash of snakeskin at his waist. His hair, half secured in a topknot and half down his back, cascaded long and black down his back like a waterfall at night. His face was pale and long, and he would have looked a ghoul if not for the upturned tilt of the corners of his lips and his deep, black eyes—kind and gentle. 

Little Star’s hands trembled as he set his papers down. He didn’t know this Idea, and yet something seemed very familiar. He racked his brain for answers. The robes told Little Star that this Idea belonged in the Warrior sect, and yet even though his aura told Little Star he was of an incredibly high rank, he didn’t look like the typical Warrior sect member, with square jaw and flinty eyes. But then again, neither did Dashing. 

“What is this place?” The Idea asked, voice neutral. 

“This is the Exchange of Song and Rhyme. If you’re here for the auditi—the Exchange, I’m afraid we’ve closed up.” To emphasize his point, Little Star took a bundle of sheet music and stuffed it under his arm and made as if to leave. The other Idea never stopped watching him, and looked as if he were amused. It made Little Star bristle. 

“Surely you have time for one more song?” The Idea asked. 

Little Star steeled his nerves. It didn’t matter how old or venerated this Idea was, he couldn’t just enter at will! 

“There is a process for the Exchange,” Little Star said very formally. “If you would like to apply, there will be a chance to do so at the Second Millennia Symposium.” 

The Idea was quiet. In his black robes, standing off stage in the shadows, he looked like he might melt straight into the ether. “It’ll be too late, then.” 

What did he mean, it would be too late? Weren’t they all immortal? But the way he said it—Little Star caught his breath. Not that it was any of his business. It wasn’t. 

“I apologize for having bothered you, High Steward,” the specter said, and turned to leave. 

“Why?” Little Star asked, despite himself. He gasped to himself and berated himself for his own impudence. Of all the—

“Why what?” The spectre’s voice held no sign of impatience, only kindness and calmness. 

“Why—why don’t you come up on stage?” Little Star sat back in his judge’s seat, and set his papers down. Of all five hundred auditions, he hadn’t received a single one from the Warrior Sect. The two sects interacted infrequently—mostly during wartime, in speeches made by politicians and generals about protecting lives _back home_. But in peacetime—what could this Warrior specter offer him? 

This could be interesting. 

The spectre came on stage and bowed deeply. Little Star shivered. From his aura, this Idea obviously old, maybe five hundred years, maybe a thousand. His skin was as pale as jade, as fine as porcelain, and looked as if it had seen a thousand tragedies and ten thousand calamities. And Little Star thought Dashing had tragic eyes.

“So sing,” Little Star commanded. And the spectre did. 

_Twinkle, twinkle, little star,_ he started. 

_For those in favor of what you are_   
_Gleaming titles, incandescent_   
_See not at all the bloodshed, rampant._   
_Whilst I, by fortune, am the last one standing,_   
_Unlook’d joy in the people, honoring_   
_Great princes and their fair realms blooming_   
_But like flowers, ever fading—_   
_And they in themselves their pride falls, cascading_   
_And at their frowns, glory dying._   
_A warrior famed for tormented fight,_   
_Post his victories, out goes his light,_   
_From the books of honor, pages turned over—_   
_And all the rest he stood for, all are smoldered,_   
_Wherefore is his happiness then,_   
_If he has never had nor been?_

It sounded very familiar. Why did it sound familiar? Little Star blinked, wracking his brain, and then realized where it had come from. There had been a poet in the 1600s, one of the most famous poets and playwrights in the world. This was one of the many sonnets he had composed.

The spectre had not plagiarized it, and there was a spin on the words, but nonetheless it was a very transparent cover. Little Star sniffed. “My apologies on behalf of the Song and Rhyme Committee, but unoriginal submissions cannot be considered.”

The spectre looked impressed. “So you know of this song.”

“It’s not a song. It is a well-known sonnet.” 

“Then you’ll know that my submission today is an adaptation.” 

“There may be other competitions for adaptations,” Little Star replied, “but the Song and Rhyme Committee only considers original submissions.” 

“Aren’t all submissions unoriginal?”

“Pardon me?” 

“They’re all based on your song, after all.” The spectre pointed at the bell hanging from Little Star’s waist. 

“It’s not _my_ song,” Little Star was quick to point out. “I’m just a steward.” 

“If you are _just_ a steward, then how do you judge what is an unoriginal idea or not?”

Little Star stood up straighter, letting the full glare of the spotlight flicker off his white robes. How rude! Where did this spectre get off, anyway?

“I’m afraid I’ve let my rogue tongue get the best of the conversation,” the spectre said, probably because he noticed Little Star’s bristling. “Pardon my intrusion, please. I did not mean to disturb.”

“You’re not disturbing,” Little Star said, quickly sucking in a deep breath and stilling his expression. He wouldn’t let this spectre feel like he got the best of him! “The auditions were over, anyways.” 

“Then I’ve come on off-hours. That is the very definition of disturbing.” 

Little Star narrowed his eyes. Barging in, singing his song, then saying that he was being a disturbance—what in the world did he want? 

As if reading his mind, the spectre bowed. “It was an idea in my head for a while. Perhaps it was my greed for an audience that led me to sing for anyone.” 

_Anyone?_ Little Star didn’t know what to say. In their world, the only audiences that mattered were the ones across the liminal bridge, in the Real World. But it wasn’t as if he were a nobody! His voice came out testy. “Might I ask who you are?” 

“Just an old spirit with too much to say,” the spectre murmured, and began to walk away. 

“Wait!” Little Star descended the stage in a flurry, nearly tripping over the hems of his robes. He wasn’t sure what he wanted from the stranger, but he couldn’t just let—

Oof! The air was knocked out of his lungs. He looked up dizzily. 

“Little Star?” It was Dashing, looking just as knocked out. He had come to find his friend and take him to dinner. But his friend looked anxious, distraught, frazzled. “What happened? Are you okay?” 

Little Star explained what had happened and who he had met, and Dashing immediately knew who it was. The spectre’s name was Total Victory, and he was one of the oldest spirits in his sect. Total Victory was not known for his participation in the arts, so it was even a surprise to Dashing when he decided to join the Warrior delegation bound for the Symposium at the last minute.

“He’s weird,” Little Star sniffed. Dashing gave him an awkward smile. 

“He’s almost two thousand years old, so he’s bound to be a little old school. And Total Victory is—well, it’s a hard Idea to bear. He has cultivated a strong constitution to be able to do it, but the burden is still huge.” 

“I don’t care how old he is or how venerated his Idea is,” Little Star sniffed. “There are rules to how this world works, you know. And the first is that you shouldn’t plagarize other’s ideas.” 

Dashing stiffened. “What do you mean?” 

“He came in shamelessly and sang Shakespeare’s twenty-fifth sonnet set to _my_ s—I mean, the song that I steward. Yes, there were a few changes, but they were cosmetic. Ha! You can’t fool me—as if that sonnet hasn’t already been around for hundreds of years!” 

“You study Shakespeare in your curriculum?” Dashing said, changing the subject. “That’s nice. They only give us _The Art of War_ and _War and Peace_ and all of Winston Churchill’s biographies...”

Little Star looked to the side, feeling a little disgusted that Dashing was changing the subject, but letting him do it nonetheless. If Dashing didn’t have the stomach to talk about his venerated Elder behind his back, so be it. And to be honest, Shakespeare was not part of his sect’s core curriculum. But one couldn’t fault him for deviating a little—it was too tiresome to *only *study children’s rhymes and basic chord progressions!

Two thousand years! What could one have seen over two thousand years? Probably everything in the universe...

Long ago, when he first became differentiated and began to mature, the Elders had given Little Star advice about his career. Dabbling in other disciplines would only distract from his path, and both with the natural charismatic talents he had and his face, innocent and wide-eyed, he had so much potential. Little Star wanted to shine—but he didn’t like the idea of being bested by anyone, least of all his friends. While Dashing still hadn’t made it far along the career ladder, he was still more cultivated than Little Star was, with access to tomes and tomes of bloody histories and stories about ruthless murderers. 

But once Little Star had one thousand nursery rhymes under his command, he would be made Chief Steward and his division would run itself. And with hundreds of Stewards running under his command, he’d be free to study whatever he wanted! Then, he’d devour whatever he could get his hands on, learn all the arts, visit other sects freely, and admire the handiwork that would be all of his—millions of humans singing their children at night, the power of their songs bringing peace and sleep to the world all over. 

He smiled to himself. These were big ideas. But he had all the time in the world to make his ascent. 

“Little Star?” Dashing looked concerned. “Are you there?” 

“Oh, whatever.” Little Star sniffed, coming back to earth. “C’mon, let’s go eat ice cream.” 

Of course, ice cream was not in the realm of Ideas, nor could they eat. All they could do was venture into the shopping mall connected to the complex and watch humans eat it, and picture themselves doing the same. It was the afternoon, and a mother and son were in line for ice cream at the food court. _Strawberry!_ Little Star shouted. _Please!_

But of course the humans couldn’t hear him. The little boy got mint chocolate instead. 

“Disgusting,” Little Star moaned, watching the green ice cream melt down the boy’s ice cream cone. He pouted at his friend. “You got lucky.” 

“No, it’s the humans who are lucky,” Dashing sighed. The mother of the boy scooped tiny bites of lemon sorbet into her mouth with a tiny plastic spoon. Dashing’s eyes on her looked dreamy and far away, like he was imagining what it must taste like.

“Dashing,” Little Star said, only a little sad to jolt his friend out of his reverie. “About tomorrow...” 


End file.
